feet slamming on concrete
once was brick formed by molds
each step has its own shape
each emotion a hue
each life forged with patience
infused with color
ready to create fire
from nothing for someone
hearts glow after chants
revive creation myths
shape a narrative path
circular around lungs
breathe in and step to drumbeats
save patterned hums
of tires on brick, old school
old-fashioned world structures
return to walking
continue on marching
New lyric cento, took lines from one of my 2013 summer playlists:
Down, down, baby, down by the rollercoaster
It seems this game is neverending
The winter stayed inside the shade
Who’s gonna say a little grace for me?
Out on the sea we’d be forgiven
What did Harvard teach you?
When we were kids I swear we were power lines
City and desert coexist
We’re all walking lightly.
Rows of kousa line the pan
and steams beneath aluminum ceilings.
Steep knee-deep in tomato sauce
known as Arabic spices.
Secret infusions stuff words back
in mouths, an apple in a roasted pig.
Nobody obtains knowledge of the sumac
the red pepper or paprika or a pinch
of something in the tomato paste
we ingest without any memories.
There is no pastiche fitting for these
squashes bursting with lamb
lean and perfect only for
this Easter Sunday.
You were a week late, he says.
You were too early, she retorts.
I pan the skies to locate frogs
flying through the rebel cold
fronts. Skies tinged with patient
windsocks billowing north and
then to west. I watched acacias bloom
before an instant later eaten
like kids pull the buds from
broccoli, leaving naked stalks, but this
time with plastic bags and cloths
wrapped in the spiky branches as make-
shift catapults will fling that
house from 4th to 9th street.
The wipers fling away only
one second’s worth of meager tears.
Squirrel walking tightrope is all too common
But today I see a silhouetted reflection
Upside down and scuttling like stop-action
Animation, the one time craze of snowball kitsch
To lighten serious discussions involving self-worth.